The seventy-second floor penthouse was a study in deceptive calm. The air conditioning hummed, circulating air that was too clean, too filtered. Below, Manhattan roared, but up here, everything was muted, insulated by miles of glass and steel. It felt less like a safe haven and more like a very expensive cage.

We had settled into a routine of forced normalcy. Clara was the only anchor. Her small, unaffected presence during breakfast, asking Alexander if "cloud pancakes" were a city delicacy, ...